


Tales Writ in Blood

by Nibelung



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mutilation, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, severe violence against space facsists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 08:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16552394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nibelung/pseuds/Nibelung
Summary: The last surviving member of the royal house of Lutecca faces off with the man responsible for conquering her homeworld.





	1. Rotkäppchen

“You are foolish, Princess. You will sign the capitulation sooner or later. The Hegemony has many means of making people submit. It only remains to be seen how much agony you will go through first.”

Strapped in the restraints of the convulsor machine, her arms and legs held upright in an X position, Princess Jerala simply laughed at the threats spouted by her tormentor.

“Laugh all you want, my dear. You will bend the knee in the end.” Hendric vomEgon ran his mismatched eyes, human and cybotic, over the Princess’ naked form. At sixteen, already a bush of fiery hair grew between her legs to match her formerly flowing red tresses, now cropped in the buzz cut of a Hegemonic prisoner. “As I said, we have myriad ways of coercing our prisoners… some more unpleasant than others.”

“Margrave, before your men found me on Zanjj, twelve Oultramerian mercenaires captured me and _fucked_ me like a cybodoll. If you’re imagining you can rape me into submission, think again.”

Margrave vomEgon’s lip curled. “You have such a limited imagination, Princess.” He stepped towards her, flexing his cybotic right hand in front of her blue eyes. “I’ve seen things, _done_ things, that would make your blood run cold to hear of them.”

Jerala snorted. “Try me.”

“I have personally conquered hundreds of star systems for the Hegemonic Overlords. I have unleashed plagues and famines. I once ordered the murder of an entire planet’s population because its religious leader spoke out against Hegemonic rule.”

“And?” A note of boredom was audible in Jerala’s voice. “I thought you were going to give me a story, not your military file. Tell me about how you got that cybo-hand.”

“Very well. If you insist.” Taking another step towards her, VomEgon flexed his black plastoid fingers; they contrasted with the softer flesh of his organic left hand, nonetheless calloused and hardened by years of physical training. “When I led the occupation of Garaxia, I was confronted at one point by a mob of angry protestors. As my men were dispersing the rabble, one of the savages ran forward and set off a bomb he was wearing. Blew himself up, along with most of my entourage. The blast took my right hand. A futile gesture of defiance. Afterward we massacred the entire city where it happened.”

“Typical Hegemony behavior. Meet violence with violence.” The tone of boredom in the Princess’ voice had vanished, replaced by indignation. “I presume there’s a similarly blood-soaked story behind that cybotic eye?”

“Indeed. A duel with the Crown Prince of Honobredar.” Again vomEgon came closer to afford her a better look. Only a handsbreath separated them now; Jerala’s face was bathed in the glow of his artificial eye. “He demanded a duel to settle the question of whether the planet would enter the Hegemony or remain independent. He put out my eye, but ended up bleeding out on the floor of the Royal Palace. Such a waste. Had he any brains he would have realized that, even if he’d won, the Hegemony would have assassinated him.”

“Naturally.” The Princess’ eyes, fixed on vomEgon, glittered like blue coals. “And what about that scar on your nose?”

VomEgon raised an eyebrow. “What scar on my nose?”

“This one.”

In a flash, Princess Jerala thrust her head forward, sank her teeth into the nose of the Margrave of the Hegemony, and bit down. Skin and cartilage tore between her teeth. As vomEgon yelled in pain, Jerala pulled back, tearing the nose from his face.

VomEgon screamed.

She spat out his nose on the ground at her feet. Blood spattered her toes as the severed organ bounced across the deckplates. Her eyes were alight with a savage glee, her mouth showing a triumphant grin; blood ran in rivulets down her chin like a vampire in a children’s fable. As the Margrave’s nose finished its roll across the floor, Jerala turned her gaze back to vomEgon to survey her handiwork.

With both hands, human and cybotic, vomEgon cupped the gaping, bloody hole where his nose used to be. His screams had quieted down to a low moaning, but tears were visible in his eyes. Then he felt her eyes on him – felt her take joy in the suffering she had caused her captor – and flushed with embarrassment as his training came back to him.

He remembered that an officer of the Hegemony was not supposed to show weakness.

An officer of the Hegemony was supposed to revel in the glory of his wounds.

An officer of the Hegemony was supposed to revenge whatever slights were inflicted on him.

Ignoring the pain and the blood flowing copiously from his missing nose, he met her gaze and drew his hands back down to his sides. When he spoke, his voice was deliberate, slow, and icy cold.

“You will pay for that, Princess.”

Then he lashed out with his fists.

Flesh and plastoid beat on flesh that swelled and split. Bones broke.

Princess Jerala’s consciousness fled in a haze of blood.


	2. Rapunzel

_Okay,_ Izak Firelaf thought, _this is it. Cell sixty-two four-forty-two._

He took a deep breath, and ran one hand through his short chestnut hair. It felt strange after so long wearing a ponytail, the mark of the Ondu Order whose citadel in exile he had joined four years ago.

The Hegemony, of course, did not allow such expressions of individualism among its soldiers. The hair had been a sacrifice in the name of rescuing his beloved – yes, _his beloved_ , he felt comfortable admitting it now – Princess Jerala.

Not that his disguise had worked all that well. He’d barely gotten to the restricted levels when he’d been detected. Fortunately, he wasn’t the only one who found the cruelty of the Hegemony too much to bear.

From the cell-block control room down the hall, Ebdal, First of Tenrive, called out to him. “Ondu! Are you ready?”

“Yeah!” Izak shouted back. “Open the door.” Even from here the angry red scar on Ebdal’s cheek was visible; not even a Black Scout of the Hegemony was immune to the regime’s iron hand.

“Very well. It is done.”

The door slid open, and light from the corridor flooded into what had been a previously pitch-black space. Izak’s eyes swept the tiny cell until they lighted on one corner, where Jerala sat curled up with her face toward the wall.

She was naked, and her head had been shaved; the hair had been permanently depilated, and the sun of the Hegemony tattooed on the back of her head in purple, as was the custom for lifetime prisoners. Her back was red and raw with lacerations from a glowwhip. Her shoulders heaved with sobs. Izak couldn’t see Jerala’s face, but he knew tears must be running down her cheeks.

He stepped down into the cell.

“I… Izak?” Jerala whispered. “Is that you?”

“How did you know?” he asked.

“F-footsteps. Too l-light for a guard. Oh, Izak!”

“It’s all right,” Izak Firejoy told her. “I’m here.” He knelt by Jerala’s side and put a hand on her shoulder, but she kept her face to the wall, still shaking with the effort of crying.

“Izak, they… they beat me. It’s bad, Izak.” Her speech had a curious lisping sound to it, evidence of missing teeth. “I… I don’t know if you still…”

“Sssssh. I love you. I’ll always love you.” Izak smiled at her. “Turn around. Let me see.”

Jerala sniffled. “O-okay.”

As she turned her face to the light, Izak felt his gorge rise in anger at what her Hegemony captors had done to her. In his twenty years, he had never seen anything like this.

The whites of Jerala’s eyes were red with hemorrhaging. The left eye, once a fiery blue, was totally blind; the other had a misshapen pupil, canting off in one direction like a teardrop. Her nose was a swollen mess, broken in multiple places and allowed to begin healing crookedly. Dried blood marred her cheeks, and between her swollen lips Izak could see more gaps than teeth.

_The bastards. They’ll pay for this._

“I wish I c-could see your fuh-face, Izak,” Jerala said, tears streaming from her ruined eyes. “Everything’s a blur. Ever since the b-beating…” She broke off.

“It’s all right, Jerala.” Izak put both arms round her and held her. “It’s all right. I’m here. You’re safe.”

“Th-thanks.” She raised a hand – Izak noticed the broken fingers on it – and wiped away a tear. “I’m glad you came.”

“I nearly didn’t. VomEgon captured me earlier. I thought I was done for, but I had some help from an unexpected source. Did you see the new plastoid nose the Margrave’s wearing?”

“Heh.” Izak was surprised to hear Jerala laugh. “I’m the reason he’s got it. Lured him close and bit it off. Afterward I got the beating that l-left me like this.” She waved her hand to indicate her battered face. “Wish I could see his new nose. It’s all just b-blurs and shadows now.”

“Sounds like we both have a score to settle with vomEgon.” Standing up slowly, Izak helped Jerala rise to her feet. “First things first. Come on, Princess. Let’s get you out of here.”

“Ondu!” The light from the hall was dimmed by the form of First Ebdal appearing in the doorway. His black hair and tan skin, and the red scar on his left cheek, stood out against the white plating of the hall behind him. His voice was calm as ever, but Izak knew from the fact that Ebdal had left the central control area that he must be concerned. “Ondu, soldiers come. They have detected our breach of the detention area. We must hasten.”

At the sound of Ebdal’s voice and the blurred image of a man in the doorway, Jerala recoiled. “It’s all right,” said Izak. “Ebdal helped me escape vomEgon’s soldiers. He’s on our side now.”

“Oh.” Jerala bit her lip with a broken tooth, then winced. “I-I like Ebdal. He’s the only—the only one that was nice to me.”

“Maybe we can return the favor. Come on, Princess.” Izak helped Jerala up the steps to the hallway.

“Here,” Ebdal said to Izak, holding out a rifle. The barrel gleamed wetly with the blood of its previous owner. “Take this pulser. You will need a firearm when the guards arrive.”

“Ondu don’t believe in firearms. Our bodies are supposed to be weapon enough.”

“It is well I am here, then,” said Ebdal, who for once almost appeared to be smiling. “Otherwise you would not stand against such odds.”

“I’ll take the rifle,” said Jerala. “I’ve g-got some soldiers to pay back for my involuntary facelift.”

Izak Firelaf stared at her in wonderment. “But you can’t see!”

Jerala grinned, showing a mouthful of broken and missing teeth. For the first time Izak noticed the dried blood on her chin, blood that was not solely her own.

“ _They_ don’t have to know that.”


End file.
